


Grimm Up North

by arcanine



Category: Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell
Genre: Christmas, Established Relationship, Fluff, M/M, Over-Dramatic Baz, Post-Canon, Rogue Reindeers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-02
Updated: 2021-02-02
Packaged: 2021-03-13 19:40:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,493
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29159043
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/arcanine/pseuds/arcanine
Summary: Knowing Simon is lacking in good Christmas memories, Baz designs the perfect day out. But things don't exactly go to plan...[or: Baz vs the north of England]
Relationships: Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch/Simon Snow
Comments: 19
Kudos: 58
Collections: Let It Snow Zine





	Grimm Up North

**Author's Note:**

> This was my contribution to the Let It Snow Zine 2020. Make sure you check it out if you haven't already!

**BAZ**

They say it's grim up north, and it's not difficult to see why. Standing in the middle of Manchester just two Saturdays before Christmas, chilled to the bone and waiting for the crossing man to turn green, I’m almost certain we’ve slipped into a new dimension of hell.

The rain isn’t helping much. We’ve been attempting an awkward umbrella shuffle since we left the station—two men too large to share one brolly, fumbling through the crowd. Snow's so close, and after years of barely touching, I should be thrilled by the thought. But it's hard to feel romantically inclined when you're positioned in the splash zone for every double decker bus in the city.

"Bit busy, isn’t it?" Snow says.

“Yes,” I agree, as the crossing light finally changes and an elderly woman elbows me in the ribs. "Yes it is."

I try not to let the bitterness seep into my voice, but it's difficult. When I imagined a Christmas day out with the love of my once-tragic life, I pictured it a little more.. _.idyllic._ A cliched rom-com montage of gingerbread men and that soft, powder-like snow that never actually falls in England. Tackling Simon to the ground to make snow dragons and kissing his sinfully attractive face until his lips warm beneath mine.

It was a foolish thought, I realise now. If I tackled him down here, we’d end up in A&E, trampled by the hoards of shoppers dragging their zombie-like limbs towards Primark.

It wasn’t supposed to be like this. Today was supposed to be perfect. The chance for Simon to finally make some good festive memories, because Crowley knows he doesn’t have enough of those.

Snow wasn’t blessed with the kind of life that brings presents in shiny wrapping and gourmet turkey. There was never even a guarantee that he could spend the occasion with someone who cared. I wanted this year to be different. A Christmas without murder or the Humdrum or his ex’s family. A Christmas together, now things are better, and simple communication doesn’t always feel like an uphill climb.

I spent weeks planning for this. I trawled over train schedules and hotels and TripAdvisor ratings. I thought I'd planned for everything.

But clearly, I didn't account for the chaos that reigns over this city.

It’s a nightmare. Crammed full of dawdlers, determined to make sure we all take the most inefficient route possible. In London, we adhere to strict escalator commandments—stand on the right, walk on the left—and only outsiders would dare to disobey. Here, it’s a free for all. _Stand_ in the spot that blocks the most people, _walk_ wherever the hell you want.

We could've gone anywhere else. But as much as I wanted to jet us off to some sophisticated European city, I knew that it had to be here.

It was just a passing comment. Something Simon said one morning before the sun and the city had risen. Snow still has the poor habit of waking at the crack of dawn. But instead of clattering around our room like a hammer in a washing machine, he wakes me more gently these days, pressing his warm body against mine and talking as though I’m awake enough to listen.

"It was one of the first things I wanted when I found out I had magic,” he’d said. “Kept asking the Mage why I couldn't just teleport to the Football Museum in Manchester because I'd always been desperate to go. I begged him to take me there three Christmasses in a row but...well, he was always busy, wasn’t he?”

“Christmas?” I asked, half-asleep and too tired to remember the start of this one-sided conversation. “...Manchester?”

“Yeah. There’s these Christmas markets there. Have you heard of ‘em? They have food and beer and all these lights and stuff. It looks well good. I stole a leaflet on it once when I was a kid. Slept with it under my pillow for weeks.”

He was talking so openly. He was so close to me, without any inhibitions or self-doubt. In that moment, he wasn't the boy who'd once held the weight of the magickal world on his broad shoulders. He was a man who’d once longed for things I’d always taken for granted. And I'd long since made it my mission to make sure he never longed for anything again.

I drew him closer that morning, until his wings wrapped around me. We laid there until the sun had fully risen and I was thirsty enough to kick him out of bed to make us tea.

In my defense, my intentions weren't purely selfish. Because the second he left the room, I began to plot out a schedule that even Bunce approved of.

And we're an hour and half behind it right now, since of course our train rolled into the grey expanse of Manchester Piccadilly Station late. We walk towards the towering glass museum, trying to rectify our tardiness. And my heart fucking sinks as I glance at the hand-scrawled note that’s affixed to the door.

_Closed due to unforeseen circumstances - sorry!_

"Oh," Snow says.

"It can't be closed," I say. "I checked the website twice."

Snow shrugs. "Looks pretty closed to me."

"No _._ You—you always wanted to go."

"When I was eleven. It's fine. These things happen. Means we can go to the markets sooner, doesn’t it?"

“I suppose,” I say, trying to push the dejection from my voice.

Naturally, the Christmas markets are packed too. We wind past wooden stalls selling handmade baubles and huge wheels of cheese, pausing to comment on things that might make a nice gift. The whole world smells like mulled wine and fried meat, and for a moment, my disappointment fades. _All I Want For Christmas Is You_ blasts from a nearby speaker, and even the rabid jingling bells in the backing track begin to sound more festive than obnoxious.

And then Mariah Carey is drowned out by screams.

At first, all I hear is hooves on the pavement. The crowd parts, and I see a blur of brown. Parents reach for their children, and I notice the enormous antlers.

And then a reindeer in a festive harness collides with my thigh and takes a bite out of my cashmere coat.

"What the—" I say, as it starts to tug at the material. "That's _mine_!"

"Baz!" Simon's already adopted a defensive stance, brandishing my umbrella like it's the Sword of Mages. "Um...go away! Shoo!"

I attempt to dislodge myself, but the beast's teeth clench tighter. "Piss off!" I hiss. "I will not hesitate to eat you for lunch."

The beast has the nerve to sneer.

"What do we do?" Simon asks.

"I don't know," I snap. "Get it off."

"Oh! Dasher!" A woman in a high visibility jacket shouts, rushing towards us. "Sorry! He must've got out of the enclosure again. I swear those reindeer activists are out to get us."

 _Dasher_ goes all soft when she strokes his nose, relinquishing his grip on my coat.

"You should be careful!" Simon's still squared up defensively. "Baz could've been hurt, y'know."

"But he's not, right?" The woman claps me on the back. "You're fine, aren't you? Just you and Dash 'ere making friends. No injuries. No lawsuits!"

I'm tempted to feign an injury, but I'd prefer it if she took that mangy mammal with her and left immediately.

"I'm alright,” I say.

"Brilliant! Right then. Pictures with Santa and his reindeers this way!” she shouts to the gathered crowd. I can’t believe I’m being used for publicity.

The reindeer turns back to growl at me, and I mouth “lunch,” not breaking eye contact until it turns away.

Simon clears his throat, like he's struggling with what to say. "Are you—"

"I don't want to talk about it."

"Okay. But I—"

“Erase it from your memory," I say sharply. "I've had enough four-legged mammals to last me a lifetime and I'd be happier to just forget the whole—"

At that moment, my voice is drowned out by a choir of crooning children in assorted festive hats. Singing _Rudolph the Red Nosed sodding Reindeer._

"What were you saying?" Simon asks.

But I can barely hear him. A family starts squeezing between us, pushing and shoving until Simon and I are separated by two parents, three grandparents and six children. I extend my hand towards him, but I can’t reach him. The weight of disappointment presses hard against my throat.

This was supposed to be our day. And this fucking crowd won't even let us stand beside each other.

Crowley. I—

“I can't do this.”

I squeeze my way out of the group (a difficulty in itself for a man of my height) and I don’t hesitate. I start to run.

"Baz!" Simon shouts. "Hey! Wait."

I'm faster than Snow. It’s perhaps the only benefit of my vampirism. He only catches up to me when I'm obstructed by a Honda pulling out of a multi-storey car park.

"Baz!" he says breathlessly. "What's wrong?"

“What's wrong?” I almost laugh. "This whole fucking day is wrong!"

"What? What do you mean?"

"I _mean_ that we're drenched and I'm covered in reindeer saliva and it's cold and—” There’s faint applause in the distance and then the children start up again. _Little Donkey_ , this time _._ "And those children won't stop singing!"

My breath comes heavy and fast. I wanted things to be so nice for Simon, and what will he remember today by? The closed museum? His boyfriend having an untimely and overdramatic breakdown in the pouring rain?

"Today has been terrible,” I say, “and I can only apologise for it. We might as well just go home now."

Simon shakes his head. He holds out his hand to me. "Come on. You're coming with me."

I follow him, because anywhere’s better than the car park entrance. But he doesn’t lead us back to the station. He takes us to a nearby food stall.

“This'll make you feel better,” he says. “Trust me."

It’s hard to trust any cuisine that’s being marketed by a pig in a santa hat, but I don’t exactly have any alternative suggestions.

"Ey up,” he chirps at a woman in an apron. “Can I grab two Yorkshire pudding wraps with beef and all the fillings, please?"

"Yorkshire pudding _what_?" I hiss, as he pulls a twenty pound note from his pocket.

I watch in horror as the woman loads meat, gravy, and vegetables inside a Yorkshire pudding, folds it over, and...and flattens it?

Snow's practically bouncing in excitement. "Saw these on a food blog once. They're meant to be great. Now, where shall we go?"

Panic bubbles in my chest at the thought of eating somewhere public, but Simon is a step ahead. He leads me down a quieter street until we find a deserted little alley behind a shop. It almost feels like I can breathe again.

"Sit," Snow says, pointing at a wall. " _Eat._ " He thrusts the culinary monstrosity into my hand.

The wall makes my arse cold, but it's not like I can get any wetter. I'm not exactly thrilled at the concept of a roast dinner wrap, but when I take a bite, it's not entirely disgusting. Snow perches down next to me and begins to inhale his own.

"So," he says through a mouthful of food. "What's all this about today being terrible?"

I chew carefully, keeping my eyes cast on the ground.

"I can sit here all day, y’know. We’ll get sausages next. Then I'll nick that reindeer for you. I'll keep feeding you 'til you talk."

Another bite. A mouthful of beef and a molten carrot.

“Baz,” he pleads softly. “Please.”

I exhale and meet his eyes. There’s gravy on his chin.

“Fine,” I say. “I'm just…disappointed, I suppose. Today was supposed to be fun."

"It is fun!”

"We're eating soggy food in soggy clothes."

"Yeah? And it's brilliant!"

"It's not brilliant, Snow. It's a fucking disaster."

"No." Simon says. "Disasters are the Humdrum appearing or being kidnapped by numpties or the fact that I have an invisible tail tucked down my bloody jeans _. This..._ this is normal stuff."

I shake my head. "It could've been better. If I'd planned for this—"

"You did, Baz! You put so much thought into everything, and I’m so fucking grateful. It’s exactly what I wanted.”

“I...I haven’t ruined your childhood dreams?”

“Of course you haven’t!” Simon grins. “We don't always have to be extraordinary, y’know. Sometimes, we can just be two blokes getting piss-wet through, eating flattened Yorkshire puds."

“Okay.” I smile back weakly. “But let’s not make a habit of it.”

“Are you kidding? I wanna come back every year!”

“Really? You genuinely like this?”

"Yes! I have this," Snow holds up his Yorkshire pudding wrap. "And _this_ ," he pats my leg. "What else could I want?"

"Warmth?" I suggest. "Dry clothing?"

"Well, you know what they say, don't you?" Snow grins wider. "It doesn't rain in the pub."

Things only improve after that. I feel remarkably better once we're cosied up at a table near a fireplace with oversized glasses of mulled wine. There's something pleasant about ditching my five-star dinner reservation to stay in the pub and eat chips, though I wouldn’t dare mention that to Simon. The day rushes away from us, and darkness settles fully before we even think of re-emerging. The last train home is earlier than I’d like. It’s a struggle to remove myself from the plush armchair.

The wind rushes at us before we’ve even left the pub doorway.

"It's fucking freezing," I complain.

"Good!"

"What do you mean good? You might have the body temperature of a preheated oven but—"

"It's good," Simon grips my hand and tugs me outside, "because _look_!"

I glance up at the dark, cloudy sky and it’s...it's _snowing_. Not good snow, of course. It's slushy and unceremonious—a pathetically weedy attempt at Christmas magic.

But Simon laughs and wraps his arms around me, on a street that's illuminated by thousands of twinkling festive lights, and for a moment, everything actually is perfect.

"I've been thinking," I say. “Perhaps I've been too quick to judge here."

“You?" Simon fakes a look of surprise. " _No_."

"I think I ought to give this place another chance. I’ve already contacted the Football Museum, and they'll be open again tomorrow. I think we should book a hotel.”

“But Baz.” Simon grins. “I didn’t bring any pyjamas.”

I raise my eyebrows. “I’m sure we’ll find a way to manage.”

"A second day in the north. The snow's gone to your head, Baz. It's made you all soft."

“That,” I say leaning down, “happened a long time ago.”

When I find his lips in the dark, he tastes like beer and vinegar.

Perhaps it's not as grim as I thought here. At least...not if I'm with him.


End file.
